On a blustery autumn day a galley was nosing up the wide loop of a British river that widened into the harbour of Rutupiae.

They turned back to the rampart stair, and clattering down it, headed for the gate which stood open tonight between the fort and the great marching-camp; little Cullen strutting behind them with his hound's tail a-swing at every step, sounding the apples of his Silver Branch triumphantly as he went.